Another World's War Rewritten
by KuroYami21
Summary: I have decided to rewrite it with the help of a beta. It is still an Elfling!Harry. Harry wishes himself to be anywhere but at the Dursley's. He wishes himself somewhere where he will be loved. Middle Earth. M for major abuse.
1. Wishing Myself Away

**Chapter 1**

Number Four Privet Drive had never been the most 'normal' house on the street, despite Petunia and Vernon Dursely's best efforts, but this week… this week was different. This week was much worse.

Harry Potter sat on his bed in the smallest, rattiest room in the house, bloodied and broken. The Dursley's had never wanted a 'Freak' in their house and had never treated him well, but something in them seemed to have snapped this year. They took their abuse further than they ever had before.

Harry wasn't sure what he'd done to deserve Vernon's wrath, but a week before the man had decided to teach him a 'lesson'. Instead of simply denying him food and locking him up with the occasional backhand or punch, Vernon had actively whipped the boy with the buckle end of his belt until he bled freely, then raped him.

Every night.

Harry's awareness was hazy at best, but he knew his birthday was almost here—a quick glance at the clock showed fifteen minutes until he was sixteen—and he couldn't get one thought out of his mind.

_Let me go someplace they'll care…_

His friends had betrayed him, turned on him, refused to listen. Dumbledore continued to throw him back to the Dursleys. Snape… well, Snape was Snape. That is to say, snide, nasty, and all-around Snape-y. Between the two Professors and his former friends, the entire Wizarding world was convinced Harry was an attention-seeking liar.

_Let me go someplace that I'll be loved…_

A soft click got him to glance at the clock as 12:00 AM slid into place.

_Happy birthday, Harry._

He slipped into unconsciousness as he let his eyes fall closed, blood-loss and pain finally overwhelming his defenses.

He stayed unconscious as a gold-white light gathered around him as magic struggled to fulfil his wish, the light flaring brighter until it flashed out like a dying light-bulb, leaving the room bloodied but empty.

_Xxxx_

Grey eyes habitually scanned the forest from beneath dark brown brows, though no danger had presented itself for days. As a chieftain of the Dúnadain, caution while alone and most especially while in the Wilds had been drilled into Aragorn.

He was returning home to Rivendell, having been among the Rangers of the North for quite some time and wishing to see his family again.

He let his thoughts drift, still aware of his surroundings but no longer truly paying attention to them as Arwen, daughter of Elrond and love of his life, filtered through his thoughts.

She would not be in Imladris—word had it that she was still with her grandmother in the Golden Wood. Still, the _gwanûn_ would be there, and it would be nice to see his foster-father again.

Quite suddenly, he was snapped out of his thoughts as his horse balked, a bright light flashing before his eyes and causing the animal to rear in alarm.

Aragorn threw up an arm in a vain attempt to block the blinding glow, which faded as quickly as it had come, barely keeping his seat as his mount backed up, whinnying, only his training as a battle-mount keeping him from bolting altogether.

Aragorn shook his head, blinking spots out of his eyes, and focused on the place where the light had flared.

As soon as he could bring his eyes to focus, he gasped, dismounting hastily upon seeing the body of a child lying in the middle of the path. The little one couldn't be more than seven years old from his size, and was terribly wounded if the blood on his ragged clothes did not lie.

Aragorn knelt next to the child, brushing silky-soft black hair away from the side of his face to check for head-wounds and gasped again. An Elfling!

Impossible! No Elfling had been born in over a thousand years! And yet, here was an Elfling who couldn't be more than thirteen summers, so badly wounded that it was a miracle he still breathed.

Aragorn knew the little one was beyond his skill to heal—he needed to get him to Rivendell.

He did what he could for the little one, bandaging the worst of his wounds and splinting a break to his right arm, before gathering the Elf-child into his arms and mounting his horse, urging the animal into a fast canter. They were two days ride from the Elven city, but if he pushed both himself and his mount to their limits, they could make it by the next morning, provided there were no stops for rest.

He rode hard, setting a pace that would have killed a lesser animal, and they reached Imladris as the sky was beginning to turn grey with dawn.

The city was silent, most of the Elves asleep aside from the sentries at the gates, who recognized the foster-son of their Lord. "Estil!" one of them greeted.

He didn't wait, though he let his exhausted mount drop to a walk and dismounted, cradling the too-still form of the Elfling in his arms, "There is no time—the little one is gravely wounded, nigh unto death. Send for Lord Elrond!"

Upon realizing he spoke of the bundle in his arms, one of the guards took off at a run—there was nothing the Eldar cherished more than children, even if the children were not their own. They paid for their long lives with the fact that children were rarely born to them, and so they treasured young life above all else.

"Take the little one to the Halls of Healing," the remaining guard instructed gently, "That is where they will bring your father."

Aragorn nodded once and set out at as quick a pace as he dared with his precious burden.

_Xxxx_

"What has happened?" Elrond demanded as he strode quickly into the room, noticing his foster-son had done as he had been trained and was already carefully removing the old bandages for the Elf-Lord to get a clear look at the little one's wounds.

"He was tortured, I think," Aragorn replied quietly. "_Ada…_ he's an Elfling."

_Xxxx_

Days passed and, while the little one slowly improved, he did not wake for more than a few moments at a time and flinched away from all contact that he was aware of. Though his body healed, once his sleep was no longer so deep as to prevent dreams, he had many nightmares and often woke screaming.

He would let none comfort him, and it was Elrond who quietly explained the behavior to Aragorn.

"Estil…"

Aragorn looked up at the sound of his Elven name.

"Do not be so harsh on yourself," Elrond moved to sit beside his foster-son, "The little one flinches from all of us, not just you. He was tortured, and worse, he was raped. His spirit is sorely wounded."

"Who would do such a thing?" Aragorn whispered, horrified at the very thought. "Could he have been taken by orcs?"

Elrond shook his head, "I do not believe so. They likely would have simply killed him. We will not know for certain until he is well enough to wake properly."

It was over two weeks before that happened.

_xxxx_

_gwanûn--a pair of twins, Sindarin_

_Ada(r)--father, Sindarin_


	2. Waking Up and A New Name

**Chapter 2**

Harry woke slowly, keeping his breathing deep and even and his eyes closed, trying to sense if there was anyone nearby. Vernon let him alone when he was asleep or unconscious, seeing no point in terrorizing him when he couldn't feel fear or pain.

He was lying on something soft—much softer than his bed at the Dursley's—and, though there was pain, it was much less than he had become accustomed to, merely the familiar, lingering aches of healing wounds.

He tensed slightly as he heard someone coming down the hallway, light footsteps almost silent—but Harry had learned well to keep an ear out for such sounds. They often preceded lots of pain.

_Please, don't be coming here…_

The door opened quietly and Harry's eyes snapped open on pure reflex. He had never been good at feigning sleep for long.

_Xxxx_

Elrond pushed the door open gently, hoping his young charge would wake, that they might learn more about him.

To his surprise, verdant eyes snapped open and fixed on him as soon as he stepped through the doorway, the wariness and resignation in that gaze making his heart clench.

No Elfling should look at another of the Eldar like that.

Though he had expected the reaction from what had been done to the little one, it still hurt to see him so fearful.

"_Ai, tither pen…_" he whispered sadly, continuing in Sindarin as he approached the bed, "Who is it that has hurt you so?"

Harry drew back, curling in on himself as the stranger came closer, though the words were somewhat reassuring. Surely the stranger wouldn't hurt him if he was so sad that he had been hurt…

But the reaction was beyond him to stop, a terror drilled so far into him as to be innate at this point.

Elrond hesitated as the child pulled away, trembling. He did not want to push him, but the bandages needed to be changed… "_Hên…_" he trailed off as the little one made a valiant effort to relax, daring to take another step forward. "I need to change your bandages."

After several moments, he received a hesitant nod.

Elrond moved to the bedside, setting the fresh bandages on the nightstand before helping the little one to untie the soft robe so that he could reach the bandaged wrapped carefully around the child's chest. The Elf-Lord then slowly began to remove the old bandages, trying not to frighten the little one any more than necessary.

"What is your name, little one?" Elrond asked, to take the cringing Elfling's mind off of his fear.

"_Aleneth_," the little one murmured, almost sadly.

He had no name? "We shall have to give you a name, then, _hên._"

The child glanced at him briefly, his expression a mixture of hope and trepidation.

Elrond was struck by the verdant hue of emerald eyes, "We shall call you Calenhen, _tither pen_."

_Xxxx_

_Sindarin:tither pen—'little one'hên—'child'al—negative prefixeneth—'name'_

_aleneth—lit. 'no name'_


End file.
